


Folie a Deux

by glowstick_of_destiny



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2728034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowstick_of_destiny/pseuds/glowstick_of_destiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Really, Harvey? How's that conversation gonna go?  Hey, Oswald, how've you been? Alive?  Funny how that worked out. And by the way, have you been going at people’s chests with cookie cutters lately? No? Why am I asking?  No reason. Let's do coffee?"</p><p> </p><p>Another Monday morning in Gotham, another supremely weird case for two of Gotham's finest to investigate. Harvey thinks Jim should ask Oswald for help.  Which, all things considered, is much easier said than done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Collect Call

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any and all shoddy science related to the medical examination of bodies. A brief tour of what the internet has to offer on the subject is no substitute for proper training in that area.

Jim picks out Harvey's leather coat and Ed's slight frame through the trees as he makes his way through the park to the crime scene. Harvey's voice carries back to him as he gets closer. "Christ. It's too early in the week for this bullshit." 

Jim makes his way over to where Harvey's standing over a body. From this angle, Jim can't see much but a pair of nice black dress shoes. Size ten, maybe.

"I don't think Gotham's criminal underbelly really cares if it's a Monday or not." 

"About time you got here, Boy Scout. Fifth time I've best you to a crime scene in the past two weeks." He turns to face Jim, sidestepping the body to let him take a look. "And you look like you got hit by a bus. Something you want to tell me?" 

There are a number of things he could tell Harvey. That seventeen days and nine hours ago, he came home to find Barbara's engagement ring on the kitchen counter with a note. That she said she had someone to stay with until he found his own place, so he could keep the apartment as long as he needed to. That most nights since then he's chased down Jack Daniels like he was back in the army. That one late night, with too much drink in him to think better of it, he called Barbara, and Montoya answered her phone and told him they were trying to sleep, for fuck's sake. That the first week was hell on earth. That the second week was a lesson in what a sick, sad mess his life was when he didn't have Barbara to distract him. But this week, he's not even sure if he even misses her. Maybe he just misses having someone to believe in, someone to keep fighting for. 

"Good morning to you too, sunshine. Ed, what have we got?" 

“You’re asking Nygma first? What am I, bird shit on the sidewalk?” 

“Apparently still angry at me. You got any information you want to share, or are you gonna to keep going on about how handsome I look today?”

“Yeah, well. I got a reason to be in a mood. The corpse under the tree? That's one of Mooney’s top men.” 

“Jesus. You think it’s a casualty of a turf-war or something?” 

“Nah. Falcone and Maroni, they know the rules. The cops aren’t gonna make a fuss, but they gotta do their part to keep order. They and their own know better than to leave bodies in the streets. Even if they’re trying to make a point, they’re gonna gift-wrap the body and send it express mail to the other guy’s house. Not leave it out in middle of the fucking park like this.” 

“Okay, so maybe someone outside of both families. Who’s gonna be stupid enough to threaten someone that high up in the mob?” 

“Dunno. Last I checked, that was a pretty short list." He counts off on his fingers as he talks. "Let's see... me, and you. You been recruiting any other idiots for the cause lately?” 

“What about within one of the families? Maybe there’s a new guy who doesn’t know his place yet, doesn’t know how the system works. Thinks he can start something.” 

“Sounds a lot like your that friend of yours.” 

“My friend?” 

“Yeah, pale, must be about 90 pounds, was screaming about a coming war and rivers of blood in the streets last time we all hung out? You know the one.” 

“Osw— Cobblepot, you mean?” 

"You on a first-name basis with him now?" 

"His last name is a mouthful." 

"Uh-huh." Harvey looks his own special brand of very unimpressed with that explanation. 

"How many different faction heads in Falcone’s side alone—all with their own staff and family members and hired killers— and you’re going to pin this on the one guy who lost you your in with Mooney? Very professional, Harvey.” 

"If we’re gonna go by the book here, I think you’re the one that lost me that in.” 

“And when have you ever done anything by the book? Besides, I’m not gonna to apologize for getting you out of bed with a crime boss.” 

“You're a goddamn expert at changing the subject, you know that? But I’m not dropping this. That stuff you said about a new guy starting shit? You don’t think that sounds like him at all?” 

“I’m just saying we should have all the facts before we jump to any conclusions here. If we come after either side of the mob before we have a really good lead, we’re gonna be looking at a repeat performance of last week at Falcone’s. And since apparently I don’t have a price on my head anymore, I’m not too keen on having that happen just yet.” 

“Careful there, Jim. Keep talking like that and people are gonna think you’re actually learning how to play ball in this city.” 

“Yeah, well, maybe I want to stick around long enough to be able to actually protect the people I care about.” 

“That’s your problem, isn’t it? You just care so fucking much about every sonuvabitch in this city. Thieves, crackwhores, cold-blooded gangsters – you’re their knight in shining armor, you know that? All they gotta do is make Bambi eyes at you and next thing you know you're throwing yourself in the line of fire to save them. Jesus, is that what this is about? Did he get to you, that day on the pier?” 

Jim wipes his hand down his face, breathes out slowly through his nose. It doesn't really help. But it does give Nygma a chance to make his way back towards them from where he was crouched over the body. And suddenly he's cutting in in before Jim can reply with something that's going to start a fist fight. "Detective," Nygma says, his hand on Jim's shoulder, "If you were still curious as to what I had discovered in my examination of the body, I would be happy to share my findings— I concur that it would be the best course of action to have all the facts at hand before we begin extrapolating—" 

"Sure, Ed, that'd be great." 

"Jesus, he did get to you. Call the press, Detective Jim Gordon, last shining beacon of hope and innocence in the shithole that's Gotham, has a soft spot for Oswald fucking Cobblepot. I mean, ok, I get not wanting to kill him, since that was a morality hangup for you. But Jim, buddy. This is more than that. He got to you, and if I can tell, he sure as hell can. He's an asskisser and a snitch, but he's perceptive, I'll give him that. That day by the pier? That's when he figured out that he can out on an act, and you'll end up wrapped around his finger. Now you're gonna be his new favorite mark. He's gonna ask for little favors at first—" he glance at Jim, and he seems to see something in his face, because his expression darkens. "Jesus, he already has. You’re gonna be fucked twelve ways before Wednesday." 

It's too early in the case, too early in the week, too early in the goddamn morning to be butting heads with Harvey this much. Jim takes a deep breath and reminds himself that giving Bullock a shiner isn't going to help solve the case. Turns out this whole not acting immediately in his feeling so as to not unnecessarily endanger him and those he cares about thing is no fun at all. 

"The situation is under control, Harvey. Don't worry about it. Back to you, Ed, and you know, actually talking about the reason we're freezing our asses off in the middle of the fucking park." He pauses, shoots Harvey a meaningful look. "So what have we got here?" 

“Our good doctor seems to have caught on to the fact that he was jumping the gun with his coagulation calculations. It would now appear he’s compensating by going in the other direction. I know the temperature’s dropped, and that affects the process, but that’s no excuse for--" 

“Ed—” 

“I’d put the time of death around 1AM last night.” 

“What else?” 

“You’ll notice there’s a piece of the stomach missing—” 

“You think?” Harvey interjects. “’Bout the size of a brick. Kinda hard to miss.” 

“But the cause of death was the sliced carotid artery—” 

“Slit throat, got it. You got anything useful for us, is what he meant.” Jim shoots Harvey a look. Harvey ignores him. 

“What’s interesting is – well, a few things are particularly fascinating about this setup – but first and foremost, someone took it upon themselves to literally cut from one side of the abdomen to the other, straight through several inches of skin, veins, muscle tissue, and internal organs. If the perpetrator simply wanted to create a puncture wound for effect, it would have been far easier to choose a location further to the side, one that would miss all internal organs. The fact that they explicitly seem to have targeted the stomach instead suggests both that they have at least a rudimentary knowledge of the location of the internal organs and that, with that knowledge, they could have avoided the internal organs if they wanted to, but chose not to. I say rudimentary knowledge, because they also seem to have taken a bite out of the spleen, but a very small one, which suggests that doing so may have been unintentional—” 

“So the perp looked up where the stomach was on Wikipedia and then went for it. You really need that many words to tell us that?” 

“Let him finish.” 

“As I was saying, it would have been far easier to make a cut somewhere, say, not in the middle of the stomach. Contrary to popular belief, most bleeding from a puncture wound and certainly the most dangerous resultant bleeding is internal, not external. With the cut made where it was, they would have had to contend with bleeding from any veins they severed as well as the contents of the stomach and the spleen spilling into the abdomen cavity and out onto their work surface—” 

“So they made the cut somewhere else and moved the body?” Harvey says. “Figures. You’d have a time of it cutting someone to pieces in the middle of the park without anybody noticing, even in Gotham.” 

“Precisely. Moreover, irrespective of the amount of blood loss, an injury of that severity would like have sent the victim into shock. A full autopsy will be needed to confirm this, but my guess would be that if the perpetrator had any inkling that this might happen or any sense of self-preservation to speak of, he would have made sure the victim was dead before even beginning the cut. Finally, if you’ll take a look at the puckering around the inside of wound,” he gestures, “It is evident that something heated to a very high temperature, likely metal, was used to cauterize the edges of the wound. Not professional medical equipment, though, of course, as the work is far to crude for that.” 

“Ok, so a med school dropout, or really anyone with internet access and some really hot. Maybe welding supplies, but anyone with cash can get their hands on that if they know where to look. That sure narrows it down. What about the fact that they decided that this little vial,” Harvey snatches it out of the hole in the corpse it and shakes it a few inches away from Ed's face for emphasis, “Was so important that they needed to cut a hole in a man and set it inside ‘em out like a goddamn game of Operation? What do your calculations have to say about that, huh?” 

“Detective, please, if you are going to aid in the examination of the body, I would really prefer that you wear gloves so that you do not contaminate evidence—“ He offers Harvey a pair of pale blue rubber gloves, which Harvey ignores entirely. Instead, he continues to glare at Nygma pointedly. 

“Ah yes,” Ed continues, “That’s ribes rubrum. Which is actually pretty rare to find anywhere in Gotham–” 

“Fucking English please.” 

“Red currants. The vial is chock-a-block full of them. Perhaps some missive that only the intended recipient would understand, not unlike the orange pips sent to Elias Openshaw as a veiled threat in one of Arthur Conan Doyle’s short stories. The idea was that while whoever received the pips would be scared out of their wits, only they and a select few others would understand what the message meant. Law enforcement, for example, would not appreciate that the recipient was being targeted, and his assailants would be left alone to continue with their nefarious plans." 

"Yeah, well. I don't think the perp really got the 'secret message' memo with this one. A dead body's gonna be a bit of a red glad for the police. Or anyone who walks in the park in the morning." 

"Maybe it is a message for someone in particular, though. You said yourself that any mob crimes are wrapped up in a bow, kept off the streets. Why deviate from that unless you need to make sure someone sees it? Maybe that someone is outside of the mob, and that's why they couldn't follow protocol. Or maybe the location itself is part of the message." 

"Ok, well that doesn't really help us cut down the list of folks they want to see it. Weird case like this? Anyone with a TV set's going to see this on the news." 

"Yeah, but the currants, the vial, then cut? Those things don't mean shit to us. Not yet. But I think we're gonna have to figure them out before we get anywhere on this one." 

"One might say... that it is a sort of grotesque riddle to be solved." 

Jim glances sidelong at Nygma. He looks positively gleeful. 

"Yeah, I guess you could say that. You're good with puzzles Ed. We're gonna follow up on some leads for the perp's skill set, but we're gonna need you help on this one. Get all this--" he gestures expansively at the body, "Back to the lab, and do what you do best. Anything else you find, any weird idiosyncrasies or connections you work out, I want to know about it." 

"Yes, sir." 

"Harvey, you made your point. Give him that vial back. We got work to do." Harvey huffs a sigh, shoves the vial against Ed's chest with a little more force than is strictly necessary. He starts walking back towards the parking lot without another word to either of them. 

When Jim glances back at Nygma, he's still grinning ear to ear as he bends over the body to help prepare it to be taken back to the station. 

Harvey's disappeared over a hill by the time he looks back. Jim jogs to catch up with him, but a quick look at his face says he's in no mood for small talk. 

"You shouldn't encourage him like that." 

"Is that what the silent treatment is about? I wasn't pulling that out of my ass-- we're really gonna need him in this case." 

"It all goes straight to his head, you know. And he's already getting too chummy with us. Last thing I need is you're late to another crime scene and he starts shooting off riddles like he thinks I give a shit." 

"There are worse things that could happen." 

"Yeah, like him sticking his nose where or doesn't belong or getting fresh with somebody who's got enough connections to put a hit on him. Did you know he broke into the other squint's office to have a go at doing an autopsy himself? Kid needs to learn how things work around here, or at least learn to keep his head down." 

"Sound like anyone else you know?" 

"Yeah, some sonuvabitch who nearly got both of us killed by Falcone a few weeks back." 

"And yet here we both stand." 

"Fucking mystery of the universe, huh?" 

"Well, maybe you do still have some standing with Mooney." 

"You think she's gonna stick out her neck for me with Falcone's good favor on the line? No fucking way." 

"What, you think someone else made a deal to get us the hell out of there? After these past few weeks, nobody in this city likes me. Certainly no one in the mob." 

"I think," Harvey replies, "That if you and I want to have a fucking prayer of solving this case before someone in the mob decided it’s gonna be tidier for them to just put a bullet in one of us, you need to have a little chat with that Cobblepot kid." 

"Really, Harvey? How's that conversation gonna go? Hey, Oswald, how've you been? Alive? Funny how that worked out. And by the way, have you been going at people’s chests with cookie cutters lately? No? Why am I asking? No reason. Let's do coffee?" 

"I don't care how you do it. I mean, if you left it up to me, I’d have to go with the beating the shit out of him route. Or at least threaten to, shove him up against a wall for good measure. But that fucking snitch is the best we got right now. Even if he's not behind it, chances are he's still gonna to have a good idea who is. You nearly get killed by the mob, you start keeping tabs on what everyone's up to. And if you're the one who asks, he'll talk." 

"Zsasz comes in asking for my head and there's not a single cop who's willing to risk their mob rapport to help me. And now you're telling me no one else has a connection that they can get intel from for this?" 

"Not whose gonna put their neck in the line for you. You're not too good at playing nice with the other guys, Jim. Might want to work on that, actually." 

"What about three cases ago? You had the whole bull pen out looking for me, from what I hear." 

"Thing about that, that was three cases ago. Some mob jockeys don't even last that long." 

"Lackeys. Mob lackeys, you mean." 

"Whatever. You think there's still gonna be a cop with a sympathy boner for you now?" 

"Essen's got my back when it matters. And you're still talking to me." 

"Well that makes two. And the chief's practically clean, far as I know. It's just she's in bed with the mayor, 'cause the minute she stumbles out, she won't have a job. But that's a bust, 'cause the mayor's not too happy with either if us these days. Not sure why that is." 

"You got nothing? All your bluster about not being able to get by in Gotham unless you have a gangster on speed dial and you don't have anyone you can call?" 

"As a matter of fact, no. A few weeks ago and I coulda just waltzed over and asked Mooney, but I don't think she likes me as much anymore. Said something about me spending too much time with some trigger-happy asshat with a savior complex." 

"She say that, or did you?" 

"I may have added the asshat part." Jim laughs, claps Harvey on the shoulder. 

"Look," Harvey says, spreading his hands in a conciliatory gesture, "You don't have to beat him to a pulp. All I'm saying is, get in touch, see if he knows anything. Get the info, rough him up a little, show him you’re not gonna go easy on him just ‘cause you saved his life before. Could mean the difference between a late morning with Barbara and a wakeup call to another body in the street." 

"Barbara's gone." He regrets it as soon as the words are out. Barbara had been a catchall excuse for anytime he wasn't at the precinct. Which usually meant he was saving Oswald's sorry ass, or more recently, that he was playing house with Alfred to check in on Bruce and Selina. And Harvey had his back in a firefight, but Jim didn't want him anywhere near either of those messes. 

"Christ. You didn't tell me." 

"Yeah, well, we've been busy. And I'm not sure if you noticed, but I'm not really much for heart-to-hearts. Unless they involve a lot of yelling. Usually at a suspect." 

"Or the mayor. Yeah, I noticed." 

"How am I supposed to get ahold of him, anyway?" 

"I'll ask around. Who knows? If I say I'm looking for him because I didn't get a chance to give him a nice shiner when he showed up at the precinct, I might get someone on Mooney's side of the bull pen to talk. Just try not to piss off anyone who works here in the next few hours. Think you can manage that?" 

"Maybe if I don't go back to the precinct for the next few hours, yeah." 

"Atta boy.” 

.x. 

Twenty minutes later, Jim's phone rings. 

"If anyone brings it up, you have no idea this happened. You just found out, and frankly, you're pretty pissed at me for doing it. And doing it behind your back." 

"Thanks, Harvey." 

"His number's 843-736-4846. Don't write it down, don't make the call from your own phone. And for chrissakes, don't leave a message." 

Jim turns the corner and walks faster. There are a dozen pay phones close by, but he needs a little time to make peace with the fact that he's almost certainly not the only one of Gotham's finest on a first name basis with one Oswald Cobblepot.


	2. Front Row

Jim's phone vibrating on the nightstand is deafening. Poor timing, too, what with the t-shirt he's got halfway over his head. But he catches it before it knocks into the half-empty bottle of Jack. 

The caller ID is for Jim's own phone at the precinct. "Detective!" And that's Nygma. "Do you know how a raven is like a writing desk?" 

"Christ, Nygma. What did Harvey and I say about the riddles?" 

A beat. "Not to—” 

"Rhetorical question. You find something?" 

"Indeed. And I wanted to let you know as soon as possible, since you told me that you would like to know if I discovered any idiosyncrasy, anything of value—” 

"Yeah, I remember. What'd you find?" 

"In the medical examination of the body, I found— well, it was discovered that there was a key under the victim's tongue. A large, ornate, brass affair; further testing will determine whether it is in fact an antique, or if the wear was deliberately added for aesthetic reasons. In any case, it is either from, or created to look as though it is from, a different century. Mid-to-late nineteenth century would be my guess." 

"Ok, so some bastard shoved a really old key or a _fake_ really old key in our vic's mouth. The hell do you think that's supposed to mean?" 

"My earlier riddle—” 

"What did I _just_ say about that stuff?" 

"Was actually taken from Charles Lutwidge Dodgson's beloved children's book Alice in Wonderland, although the author is more commonly known by him nom de plume Lewis Carroll. In fact, the Mad Hatter poses it to Alice while she is attending a tea party with him and a door mouse, but in keeping with the illogical nature of the scene, an answer to it is never furnished—" 

"Nygma. I've gotta talk to a suspect in five. If there's a point here, get to it." He's reminding himself as much as Nygma. He should have left already and he hasn't got a clue where his keys are. 

"Alice in Wonderland. Everything we have found on the body is highly illogical when taken at face value and individually. But considered together, they all could be references to the text. The vial in the stomach seems to parallel various items or containers labeled with the inscription ' eat me' or 'drink me' that Alice encounters in the first chapter. Her major struggle in the chapter is balancing out the effects of these compounds, which all cause her to change size, so that she may become the correct size to operate the key and leave the room she arrived in after falling down the rabbit hole. And the currants—" 

"Let me guess, those're in the first chapter, too?" 

"Indeed they are." 

"Ok, so if the perp's trying to send a message, it's for someone who knows the book pretty damn well. Some of that stuff's pretty basic, but who's gonna remember the fucking currants? I'm thinking book enthusiasts— a professor, someone in publishing, an English major at the very least. Doesn't narrow it down much, but we ID our vic, we can start cross-referencing that description with people our guy— or the Family— knows. He got a name?" 

"Mathew Galloway." 

"Ok. We can work with that. In the meantime, all the clues you've found, they're all yours. This is one helluva puzzle. You think you've found out what it means, I wanna know." 

"Certainly." He can hear Nygma grinning on the other end if the line. 

"And Ed, one more thing." 

"Yes, Detective?" 

"Get off my damn phone before Harvey catches you." 

.x. 

"You're late." Oswald's sitting in the front seat of a fancy black car. Even in the dim light of the warehouse, Jim can see that he looks irritated. 

"Yeah, well," Jim says, walking around to the passenger side, "I'm working a case. Something came up." 

"Is that why you're here— to ask after another favor for a case? Or," he pauses, eyes flicking from the leather jacket and white t-shirt and down to Jim's motorcycle boots, "is this a personal call?" 

"What do you think?" Jim climbs in, maybe slams the door a little harder than necessary. Takes a deep breath. Reminds himself to be polite. Or at least civil. "Yes, it's about a case." 

Oswald's face sort of pinches in on itself, but smoothes quickly. He smiles. "Of course it is. Then I can assume your casual dress is to avoid being identified as a policeman, in case anyone spots you with me?" 

"Don't give me that. You know same as I do, the fewer people who know about this, the better. C'mon, Oswald. I'm here and I'm playing nice, and if you could give me the information I need, I would _greatly appreciate_ it." 

"And I would greatly appreciate it if you gave me something in return for my time and cooperation." 

“And here I thought we were friends.” 

“I would very much like that. But I’m not stupid. You look at me and you don’t see a friend. You see someone who can be of use to you. I’m a very busy man. If you want my assistance, you’re going to need to make it worth my while.” 

Oswald’s not even angling for sympathy here. Tone didactic, explanatory. Like he’s done this dance before, like he’s used to being reduced to “useful,” and Jim’s the naïve one here who needs him to lay out the way things are. There’s a dozen things Jim wants to say in reply. None are a good idea. "You don't even know if you have the intel I need." 

"My prowess in the art of procuring useful information is no secret, Detective. It is far more likely that I will have the intel you need than, say, you will be able to realize the change you wish to in this city if you insist on trying to do so single-handedly. There are only so many times someone will come to your aid if you continue to rebuff their overtures of friendship. And the fact that you're still alive? Like it or not, that's thanks to friends, or those who would be friends if you let them. Friends and dumb luck. And mark my words: there will come a time when your luck will run out." 

Jim’s hands are balled in fists and his jaw clenched painfully before he realizes it. “I’ll take my chances.” A Deep breath, a stern reminder to himself that even though Oswald has misread the situation, and it’s not fair, explaining is pretty much the worst thing he could do right now. “Ok, so here's how this is gonna go. I'm gonna ask you some questions, and we'll see what kind of favor your intel's actually worth." 

Oswald's smile is all teeth. "Very well." 

"Did you put a hit on one of Mooney's men?" 

"You're going to have to be a bit more specific." 

"Nice try. It's an ongoing investigation, so information's on a need-to-know basis. Unless you're naming that as your favor?" 

"So you _are_ granting me a favor." 

"Answer the question." 

"That's the sort of thing that Don Maroni is in a far better position to do than am I." 

"Doesn't mean you aren't stupid enough to try." 

"Let me assure you: I'm not." 

"Did Maroni?" 

"I can hardly account for the collateral damage of every back-alley skirmish between members of the Families." 

"So he didn't explicitly say he wanted anyone's head recently?" 

"Not since the last time the three of us sat down together." Oswald's eyes go dark, flinty. He quickly smiles and continues. "Well, certainly no more than figuratively speaking. The man does so love his threats and posturing." 

"What about Mooney?" 

"Fish?” He spits the word out like a piece of bone in a choice steak. “She's hardly going to ring me up to fill me in on her big plans." 

"Like you haven't got people who know the second she has a new haircut." 

Oswald makes a face. "As if that would happen anytime soon. Even if it wouldn't look horribly awkward growing out, a sudden change like that in these turbulent times would be perceived as a sign of weakness." 

Jim raises an eyebrow, stares at Oswald pointedly. 

"Fine. If I did, I'd want to secure a favor before divulging that information. And you'd take care to remember that you don't have anyone else with eyes on Fish and her business, and would grant me—" 

Oswald cuts off mid-sentence, lips pausing the outline of a word. But then Oswald’s eyes are a flicking to the rearview mirror, then back to Jim, wild with something like panic, but fiercer, more focused. More dangerous. Then his hands are on Jim’s shoulders, gripping hard, more strongly than he expected Oswald could. 

“Do you trust me?” 

“What the hell kind of question is that? What’s going on—” He pauses, makes to turn around to see whatever the slighter man was looking at. But then Oswald’s hand is on his face, hard, palm under his chin and fingers digging into his cheekbones, forcing his gaze to stay forward, straight at Oswald. 

“Don’t turn around.” As if Jim could if he wanted to. His head’s spinning from a cocktail of shock and something else that’s doing nothing to help keep his pulse steady. It's the military training and pure adrenaline that brings him back to the now, the crisis. And thank fuck for that. 

“There are several of Fish's men behind us at the opposite end of the warehouse. Right now they’re more interested in making off with those crates of Maroni’s good liquor, but it’s only a matter of time before they spot my car.” Jim struggles in Oswald’s grip. He could break free if he kept at it – he’s the stronger man by far—but Oswald’s voice draws him back in. Clear, precise. Commanding, like one of his superior officers back in the army. One he actually took orders from without sassing back. “Don’t even fucking _think_ about getting out and chasing them. They’d have impunity even if you didn’t owe Don Falcone your life. Besides, if they see your face, see us together, our lives are going to get very difficult, very quickly. I have a plan. But I need you to listen to me very carefully and do exactly as I say. Can you trust me enough to do that?” 

Jim pries Oswald’s fingers from his face, nods curtly. 

“Good. Take off your jacket.” 

“What—” 

“And your shirt. Quickly, if you please.” 

“ _What?_ Why?” 

“Detective, you’re very bright. Do you need me to spell this out for you?” 

Oh. OH. “ _Really?_ ” 

“It’s an effective way to make sure whoever’s over there doesn’t come take a closer look. Well, it was going to be, but if you continue lollygagging, it may not—” 

“Okay, okay.” 

Jim’s shrugged out of his jacket is lifting up his shirt when he notices that Oswald has made no move to undress himself. “How come you get to keep your clothes on?” 

Oswald sighs. “Because we really only need one of us to be in a state of undress to make this convincing. And this is a bespoke suit.” 

Jim laughs, hauls his shirt over his head. 

And then Oswald’s fingers are on his scalp, guiding Jim's head down to rest on his thigh. Jim takes a few fast, shallow breaths, reaches for Oswald's fly. 

Oswald laughs, bright and sharp. "Actually, Detective, that won’t be necessary. Their line of vision does not go that low.” And Jim laughs too, and says "Thank god," and keeps his head on Oswald’s thigh where he can feel the man’s pulse, fast, vibrating through his skull. 

“Now then, about that favor—” 

“What, we’re having that conversation now? Really?” 

“You’re exceptionally slow today, Detective. If I’m having sex in an abandoned warehouse that’s impersonal enough that it’s not even preceded by necking, do you think I’m going to stick around for pillow talk? As soon as this is over—if they’ve not lost interest already and left— you’re going to need to get out of the car and get far away very quickly. Otherwise the jig’s up, isn’t it?” 

“How long do we have?” 

“Maybe five minutes. I don’t think I’d last very long under this sort of onslaught, do you?” 

Christ, he’s probably blushing. He hopes the shit lighting in the warehouse means Oswald won’t see. "Flattery won't get you a bigger favor. What do you want?" 

"Well, apparently you're prepared to offer fellatio without any argument just to maintain your reputation as an honest cop. I'm sure I can't fathom what you're willing to do in return for intel that could help you solve a murder." 

"If you think that—" 

"Don't worry. I'm after a much more practical favor. Just advance notice if you or another equally boneheaded cop decides to go after a member of either Family. Again." 

"What's that get you?" 

"A bit more esteem in the eyes of my employer and the security that I will continue to have a cop who when I have need of one." 

"What do you need me for? I'm sure you've got half the GCPD wrapped around your little finger by now." 

"I had wondered how you got my number. But come now, Detective. Don't be jealous. You're the most interesting of the lot, by far. And I couldn't wrap you around my finger if I tried. Not that the idea isn't tempting." 

Jim just stares up at Oswald, trying to parse whether he’s being serious or just trying to get a rise out of him. 

"Incidentally, you have three minutes left. Is this really the line of questioning for which you wish to use them?" 

"Mooney put a hit on anyone recently? Done anything else that might make her enemies angrier than usual?” 

There’s a flash of something that could be bitterness, could be bloodlust in Oswald’s eyes. And then it’s gone. “Fish and I are still not on the best of terms. But as I told you, I haven’t killed any of her men. There was a girl – a dancer. Fish didn’t kill her, but someone else did the deed on her instructions. I’m sure Fish assumed the girl wasn’t anyone of consequence, but then that’s what she assumed about me.” 

“You know her name?” 

“You’re not going to be able to bring Fish to justice for this, Detective.” 

“Doesn’t mean it won’t help me catch another killer.” 

“Julia. Julia Liddell.” 

“Mooney been getting into any other trouble lately?” 

“She does little else.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

“She’s been laying relatively low, actually. Which is more worrying.” 

“And why’s that?” 

“It’s the calm before the storm. She must be planning something big.” 

“Any idea what that might be?” 

“If I did, I’d need a larger favor before I was prepared to share that information with you.” 

“A larger – I never said I’d give you the favor you asked for before—” 

“Didn’t you? I laid out my terms. You didn’t dispute them. And then you proceeded to ask me the same question I had refused to answer earlier unless you gave me something in return.” 

“Christ. You’re unbelievable. Just because I can’t think straight when I’m—” 

“When you’re what, Detective?” 

Jesus. He can handle interrogations with fast-talkers and murderers. He can definitely find a way to end that sentence that isn’t incriminating. Probably. “When I’m honing in on a possible lead. It’s like tunnel vision.” 

“Uh-huh.” Oswald looks unimpressed. 

“Ok, you know, between that and the time limit, I wasn’t thinking about it. But your information was helpful, so I suppose you’ve earned it.” 

“Of course I have.” 

Oswald moves his hand so that his fingers rest in the longer hair along Jim’s hairline. And then he tightens his grip and tugs, hard, pulling Jim’s head back sharply. Jim bites his tongue, hard, to keep from making any sound in reaction. Oswald runs his hand through Jim’s hair again, like he hadn’t done enough damage in the first sweep, then lets his hand drop to his side. 

“What the hell was that for?” 

Jim sighs. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“And you’re running out of time. Are you quite finished?” 

Jim straightens, sits up. Where did his shirt get to?

“I’ll be in touch if I need anything else.” 

“It’s been a pleasure, Detective.” 

Jim hasn’t dressed this fast since he was in the army. 

.x. 

Jim walks through the precinct doors, and suddenly it’s like he can breathe again. It’s not a distraction, he tells himself. It’s my goddamn day job. I’ll deal with all that other bullshit later. 

Jim sits down on the corner of Harvey’s desk, the only bit not occupied by a mess of files and the two empty mugs. Harvey’s got another coffee in hand, proper coffee from the diner around the corner. “Tell me we’ve got some good news about this case.” 

Harvey looks up, grins. “Hello to you, too, partner. And you sure you need good news? From where I’m sitting, looks like you already had yourself an afternoon pick-me-up, if you know what I mean. Who’s the lucky lady?” 

The flask is nowhere to be seen, but apparently some things never change. “What? No. _No._ Why would you—” 

“Didn’t think you had enough hair for it to get that fucked up, but hey, I can admit when I’m wrong. You telling me that ain’t sex hair?” 

Jim laughs. “Nope.” 

“What, then? Some guy go in for a headlock in a fight or something?” 

“Yeah, something like that. Listen, Julia Liddell, that name ring any bells for you? Mooney ever mention her?” 

“Nope. Who’s she?” 

“Glad you asked. ‘Cause we’re gonna spend all afternoon figuring that out.” 


End file.
